


And He Only Stared At Me

by melenafrey



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Depressing, First War with Voldemort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 21:58:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melenafrey/pseuds/melenafrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remus accidentally runs into Sirius when stopping by their shared flat to get something after they've broken up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And He Only Stared At Me

There were no words for this. Nothing appropriate, nothing quite fitting, except for the ones that would break them.   
That was a stupid way of putting it; clearly they were already broken, clearly they were already beyond repair. If the fact that Remus had already cleaned out the majority of his belongings, and the fact that Sirius had never cornered him about it, didn't say so, then he wasn't sure what did.  
He couldn't say anything. He had nothing to say, except for how did we get to this point and of course there was no answer excepting that of because I don't trust you and hearing that would surely have hurt him more than he could take.  
He had only returned because he had (incorrectly) assumed Sirius would be out. Despite his determination to stay away, knowing full well he wasn't wanted there, he had realized he'd forgotten a book of photo albums, and was feeling nostalgic, and lonely, and depressed, besides.   
He had been on his way out, the book tucked into a pocket of his tatty old coat, when he stopped to look at a turned-down picture frame. He already knew what the picture held, but couldn't stop himself from reaching out to pick it up.   
And that was when the front door had opened loudly, scraping along the floor like it always did. Sirius had stepped through the front door, shaking leaves from his coat before he noticed him there, and stopped short.   
Remus froze, effectively caught in his embarrassing act of sentiment. Sirius had merely surveyed him like something unpleasant and dirty that had been tracked in on the rug. He had never looked at him that way before, and Remus averted his gaze so he didn't have to keep seeing it. It was a lazy, detached sort of loathing that he saw there, and Remus had been almost frightened at the unfamiliar look on such a familiar face. Seventeen years of being a werewolf and facing prejudice because of it, and so many disdainful looks in his past, and he had never felt like less of a human being in his life.  
Sirius had cleared his throat lightly, and Remus looked back up. He was unwinding a scarf and pulling off his leather jacket.   
He then looked away from Remus deliberately, as though hoping the problem of Remus in what was once their shared living room would vanish if he ignored it long enough.  
Remus felt something locked in his chest and rising into his throat, struggling to escape as he looked across the room, but he didn't allow himself to speak. The silence was bad enough. It lay on them like a heavy, poisonous fog, but it was far better than if he were to say anything. The mind had ways of protecting against memories like this; in a few weeks, he wouldn't be able to recall the exact way this ominous lack of sound pressed down on him. If they'd spoken, or shouted, he knew he would always remember precisely what was said.  
As it was, he would only recall that it had felt terrible, and a horrid emptiness would fill him entirely (but of course he was not yet to know that).  
Sirius had yet to say anything either, apparently being of the same mind. How cruel it was, that the only thing they appeared to agree on was that they no longer had anything to say to each other.  
Sirius crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow, meeting his gaze reluctantly. He was trying for a show of confidence, trying desperately to affect the posture of someone who really didn't care, but Remus could see. He could read pretty easily in the tense set of his shoulders and the thinning of his lips that he was stressed out and uncomfortable, and was waiting eagerly for the moment when Remus would get out of their— his – home.  
Remus longed to ask him something, anything, to simply tell him, even, how saddened he was by the way things were.   
I still trust you, he was yearning to say.   
But that sentiment went unreturned. Sirius just fish-eyed him. He stared across the room at Remus, and his penetrating gaze was cold and dead, the way he'd always shudderingly described that of his relatives. It was unfeeling, arrogant, and utterly impersonal, and no doubt meant to unsettle. This was the probably the biggest resemblance he'd ever seen between Sirius and his family since they were first years, and was a daunting reminder that he was, still, one of the Blacks.  
Remus felt a tremor of some hitherto unknown feeling – was it fear? – and he stepped backwards, stumbling. He inhaled sharply, surprised at the sudden onset of hot warmth behind his eyes, and turned to the fireplace, stealing a pinch of powder from the jar on the mantle. 

Sirius didn't hear the words he'd uttered, but as he watched Remus step into the fireplace and disappear with a green flash of firelight, he supposed it didn't matter. It wasn't like he could follow him.  
He just stood by the door with his arms crossed for a good few minutes, until the clock (Remus' clock, damn him) chimed the hour loudly, startling him into dropping his jacket.  
He stooped to pick it up, feeling mutinously furious at the entire wizarding world. At Peter, for planting the initial seed of distrust, at Dumbledore, for making him keep so many secrets, at James, irrational as that was, for making himself a target by knocking up his wife.  
Disgusted with himself now more than anything, Sirius shook himself and tossed the jacket and scarf onto the table. He stepped forward, boots stomping loudly, until his hand was stretched out to the frame Remus had been about to pick up. His hand lingered above the silver frame, and the moving image flashed in his mind's eye without his permission.   
He closed his eyes and sucked in a painful breath, his fingers trembling slightly. He made a careful fist, clenching his fingers slowly. It took more effort than he would have thought a few seconds ago.  
He opened his eyes, and ignored the patently obvious fact that they were not entirely dry as he left the frame alone and stumbling a little, tried to regain his figurative footing in their – his – home.


End file.
